Chapter XXXII: A Drop of Reassurance

Outside the Lycan Prisons. 12:27 am.

It was a case of clouds and thunder without the rain, the driver notably absent, the horses silent, raised with the scent of blood so even a murder would not make them whicker. Lucian could see the hansom cab waiting at the far end of the street, one of the few that would linger regardless of time. Time and money swept aside by a higher order…and Londoners often wondered why their cab-drivers looked so rough. Careful not to let the grime touch his suit, he turned back to the task at hand, crouching down, sniffing the air beneath the tainted carriage, combing and discarding the various scents. Blood. Perfume. Axle-grease. Sodium hydroxide. Melted flesh. His eyes swept back to Sarah Henderson, the fat, middle-aged chambermaid whose dearest friend was the murdered Mary Parker.

Someone had propped her against the wheel, pouring lye over her neck, making it difficult to find a solid bite or claw mark. No sign that Henderson…no, the victim…better to call her the victim. No sign that the victim had moved after its application, death occurring before the lye, the throat resembling nothing short of a charred waterfall spilling onto the street. While the shirt-collar… He frowned. The shirt-collar was only mildly stained, the red stitches readable. All of these clues adding up to something. Gingerly, he let his nails grow by an inch, unpinning the scent-card without disturbing the body.

Three points.

One, the killer wanted the body found, yet felt compelled to mask his or her bite. Two, the killer knew where the lycan prisons were and that he, the lycan-master, would be visiting at this precise hour. Three, and most peculiar of all, Sarah Henderson had not been wearing that dress when she died. Yet why, out of all these things, did that third point trouble his brain the most? Why should it bother him that the killer would redress his prey after pouring the lye?

"Sir?" A young, grimy-faced lycan guard was kneeling beside him, breathing too fast, his nerves starting to spike. The rest were checking the alleyways, searching for the driver, making certain no one else came this way. "Should…" He grimaced, the blond scruff on his chin not quite doing the trick. The boy had clearly lied about his age before joining this regiment. Probably lied his way across the Atlantic as well, judging by his accent. "…should I just…keep holding it, sir?"

"Just keep holding it." Some needed a hard hand, others needed reassurance. From his pocket, Lucian retrieved his last empty vial, holding it momentarily between his teeth. Always carry extras. He could have sworn he had a syringe in his left pocket…

"Like this?"

"Exactly like that," he remarked without looking, searching with both hands for that syringe. "…you're doing very well, soldier. Very dedicated." He was speaking around the vial. Not every lycan's dream, holding a cadaver's head while the lycan-master attempted to retrieve a sample. Ah. He found the syringe in his outer pocket, the right rather than the left.

The guard swallowed, a touch more nervous now that his grip had been critiqued. No one wanted to fuck up in front of the lycan-master, least of all a sixteen-year old Irish-American pretending he was twenty. "Thank you, sir."

Lucian did not bother to answer, concentrating on puncturing the exterior jugular vein. Sample retrieved. Two vials in the right pocket. Sarah Henderson in the left. Jacqueline on her way home already. He stood, having taken everything he needed from the scene. "You can put the head down."

"Yes, sir." There was a note of relief in the guard's voice, one for which he could not be blamed. Fine to be comfortable with hunting for food, killing for survival, hating those who hated you; but a murdered chambermaid with lye poured over her neck had nothing to do with survival. This was den-politics…and they only needed to look at France to see what could happen when den politics spilled onto the streets. Utter chaos. The left wing versus the right. Even after a century, Benoit and Auguste were still at arms, though he hoped to change that in the next year.

Itching to be gone, Lucian started walking around the carriage. Another fifteen minutes until Raze arrived…the man could carry an ox, but this time, his old friend would need some help getting the body back to the den. "Is your superior inside?"

"He is, sir." The guard followed, wiping his hands on his shirt.

Lucian eyed the shirt without comment. Stupid really. By London rules, lycans were not allowed to leave their den or safe-zone with blood on their hands or clothing. The boy would either have to lose the shirt or find some manner of cleaning it. "Does he have a name?"

"Pierce, sir." The guard seemed to think the name worth a trip down a memory vein. "Known him my whole life. We came over from Brooklyn two years ago when his mam said the dens were taking recruits. He got me my papers, sir."

He exhaled. "Thank you, soldier, that was eight seconds' worth of too much information." He tried to tame the barbs before he spoke a second time. It translated as a much shorter sentence. "Your name?"

"Taylor, sir. Benjamin Taylor."

"A word then, Taylor…" Lucian turned, giving a light thwack to the red smear on the boy's shirt. "You did well tonight, but that scruff on your chin makes you look younger, not older. You might also want to think about changing that shirt before you go home. Is that clear?"

Taylor let out a sheepish, yet gruff laugh. "Yeash…sure thing," he said, looking down at his shirt, the slight cockiness of another continent showing through. And then realising what he had just said, the guard coughed. "…I mean, yes, sir. I'll do that."

"Good," said Lucian, mildly amused despite keeping his emotions under wraps. Miscreant. Answering the lycan-master with 'Yeash…sure thing.' No wonder the boy was still waiting on promotion. And then, feeling remarkably generous over the next words to come out of his mouth, he added, "Now get Pierce. I have a job for you two."

At the word 'job', Taylor's mouth stretched into a toothy grin. Lycan-heaven. Eagerly, he nodded and ran off without question. He probably hadn't seen this much action since he left Brooklyn.

Still shaking his head over the youth, Lucian opened the carriage door and stepped inside, retrieving Jacqueline's fan, the Florodora programme, and a few glass beads on the floor. Seven. He counted them off twice, depositing them in his pocket and meticulously searching for anything else that might connect his mistress with the carriage. She still had a life ahead of her, something that ought not to be ruined by an avid deathdealer, seven beads, and a dead vampire. At least a third of the London deathdealers were under Kraven's greasy thumb, but one could never be too careful.

Through the open door, he could see Pierce returning, the blond youth followed by a sleek-haired brute of a soldier, the same one who had let him into the prison earlier that evening. Pierce and Taylor. It had an ambitiously crude ring about it. And though he had little trust in Taylor's ability to walk the streets without smearing blood on his clothes, Pierce might have better luck keeping him out of trouble. All they had to do now was wait for Raze, and then the three of them would be riding in style. With a dead body, no less.

o…o…o

The London Den. Two hours later.

Thunder had become a downpour, a constant battering of the windows. His shirt-collar was sticky, his coat unbuttoned, but there was no time to clean up. He had arrived home just fifteen minutes ago, checking first that Jacqueline was safe and then sprinting down four sets of stairs to haul Singe out of bed. Singe was their resident scientist. A man more intelligent than a small country and consequently, one of three people who could tell Lucian to please fuck off at three in the morning…but not tonight. They were now in the study, waiting on Sarah Henderson's remains, which as of two hours ago had begun crisscrossing London in the most out-of-sight manner. The carriage should arrive any minute now.

The clock was ticking. In the event that the body never arrived, there was still the sample perched on the desk before him. Sarah Henderson. He still had the other two in his pocket, the earlier take of Christian's blood. One he had tasted on his way back to the den…and nothing in the man's memories to suggest anything other than loneliness. Long hours in the dark, entire weeks gone without speaking.

No time for guilt.

The other he had left for Reinette…though he was still debating whether it was wise to use her gift in this matter. It was not that he feared what she would see…only that, until her blood-sight had the full backing of the Horde, using her on a political prisoner might constitute as a violation of confidential information. Another matter that must be broached at the Gathering of the Horde…

A gloomy voice entered his musings. Singe. The lycan was pacing the length of the room, his hands kneading themselves into a furor behind his back, smelling both melancholy and irritated. "If they are not here soon…"

"It's a cadaver, Singe." Lucian looked up briefly from his desk. "…it's moving as fast as it can."

Singe gave him a withering look. "If it was moving, Lucian, there would be no point to my being here…" Singe was a hermit. He did not see the point in sporting false names; after his first Change, he had spent the majority of his life in a laboratory and nothing changed down there, least of all names. Downstairs, his instruments were in place, the microscopes, the test-tubes, the burners. He had not had time to prepare a new blood-chart. To express his disgust over this, he was now speaking his native dialect.

Lucian continued playing with the twenty wooden balls on his desk, all of them sized in different proportions. Each of them polished to a red sheen, the ripples in the grain reminding him of a desert. His days and nights filled with heat and sand and women who smelled of incense and cinnamon. Another one of the puzzles he had picked up on his travels. "So how did the lessons go yesterday?"

"Phhft." Singe made a dismissive noise, speaking reluctantly, gesturing with his left hand. "She has no background in English. She could not read. She kept asking me if I was lycan."

He almost winced, managing to drop seven of the wooden balls. Trust Reinette to open a conversation with an insult. "I suspect she spoke without thinking," he said in the same breath, avoiding Singe's eye for the moment. Quickly changing the subject. "How much longer will it take by the way?" He considered the thirteen balls that remained on the table and then plucked one from the edge before it rolled. "I need her to speak it by May…" He needed her to make a good impression before the Gathering of the Horde. Like a hooded falcon on his arm. A creature of intellect and efficiency, one that could be used before returning it to a cage.

Singe made the same sound again. "I cannot pick numbers out of the air, Lucian. Obviously, she does not like it, but maybe if someone else were to take her training." He shrugged. "That lycan, Rena, for example…"

"No, old friend, I must be adamant about that." Lucian leaned back in his chair, gathering the seven missing balls from the floor. "Rena cannot take everything on her shoulders, and you in turn could stand a little more…" He placed each ball on the table in an exact line, so they would not roll. "…and besides. Without the tutoring, your best excuse for being outside your laboratory would be…" A long pause and nothing to fill it, he decided. His hand darting to the right again, catching one of the balls before it rolled. There seemed to be an unnecessary incline on his desk. And then he frowned, contemplating Singe. "…sorry, what is it that you do besides science?"

"Food. On occasion." The lack of emotion suggested this was not a joke. Singe moved onto a more scientific topic. "When did you want me to examine her blood?" He was speaking of Reinette.

"As soon as possible." Lucian started rebuilding the pyramid, placing the pieces with little to no deliberation. Once you understood the trick, it was only a matter of seeing it through. "She'll be sick tonight, but I'll get a sample tomorrow or the day after. Second priority after Sarah Henderson."

"Mmph." Singe nodded, storing the information away in his brain. He paced for another full minute before resuming the topic. "Do you still want my opinion?"

"Does it differ from my own?"

"It depends. She might be getting stronger, but such things lie on the inside. Hard to tell without ten years to watch her progress." And for a moment, his eyes lit up. A specimen to watch over ten years, categorising the changes. It was a dream come true. "All the same," he shrugged, the silver dropping away to reveal reality. "…I should not speak until I have a first sample."

"I thought you just did."

Before Singe could reply, they heard the sound of cobblestones. Requiring more proof than sound, Singe stepped to the window and peered out the drapes, only then making a sound of approval. "Give me two hours," he said, the sight of that cadaver doing more for him than any lycan ever could. Notably, he was speaking standard German again. He closed the drapes, took the vial on the desk and headed for the door.

Hearing the door close, Lucian very carefully placed the last ball on the top of the pyramid and then found himself reflecting on the finished puzzle. It was a lesson in what should and should not occur when building an empire. A single piece out of line, and the entire structure would collapse. He stared. He pondered. And then without a hint of regret, he touched the lowest tier. As expected, the pyramid came crashing down, the wooden balls scattering across his desk and onto the carpet. Abandoning them, he pulled the second vial out of his pocket. While Singe was off playing with his cadaver, it was time to pay a visit to the East Wing.

o…o…o

The East Wing. Ten minutes later.

His first warning was the echo. Like the cawing of a bird, rasping as though its lungs were too dry for humour. The sound making him freeze in the hallway, considering for the first time whether he had pushed Reinette too far. Whether he would open the door to see that she'd scratched her eyes out and was finding amusement in the amount of blood pooling at her feet. Not entirely impossible.

He entered the room, already poised to act, only to find himself bearing witness to an altogether mundane activity. No blood. No screaming. Instead, he saw Rena and Reinette seated on the floor with a deck of cards scattered between them. One large, the other small. One staring blankly at her hand…and the other laughing on her back, as though she'd just been told that 'sleeping with a wolf's head beneath her pillow' was a cure for insomnia. A scent of exuberance in the air, reckless like a bird touching down upon water.

At the sound of the door closing behind him, she sat up. Staring at him for the time it took a hunter to shoot…and then quickly scrambling onto her knees, instinct causing her to reach for her veil. Deft with her fingers so that it was pinned before he had time to speak. Her eyes glowing beneath the black like jewels at the bottom of a deep sea. Every stitch of clothing in place as though she would never again allow modesty to give way to comfort.

"Lyosha." With her back straighter than a ship's mast, she picked up her cards again, seeming to chide him with his own name. "We did not expect you to drop by so soon." With a hand, she indicated the floor as though it were a gentleman's gambling hall and she its unlikely host. "Would you care to play a round with us?"

He scowled. Not the most ominous of situations. And considering the rest of his evening, he might even have answered; only something beyond the cards was causing her lips to twitch. The black failing to disguise the remnants of merriment, even as she began to organize her cards, clearly avoiding his eye. Her scent making him wary. The one too lively and the other too silent for his comfort. For Reinette did not laugh. Not without reason.

He eyed the problem. "Can I have a word with you outside?"

Rena immediately put her cards down, her scent wrapped in a thin layer of shame, like a dog wary of discipline. His decision to chide the one doing little to banish the sound of the other losing her composure again. The second peal of laughter giving him yet another reason to wonder if drink-fighting ought to be the only vice banned in the underground.

Impatient, he stepped over the cards, ignoring the protest of Reinette as he jerked Rena up by the arm. Directing the lycan woman towards the door and letting her veer a little closer to the wall. "Is she on something?" Small wonder he was choosing to speak German this evening.

"No, Lyosha." In spite of this answer, Rena was quite careful to keep her eyes on the floor. He jerked her chin up and she blinked. There. Rena had done something. He knew it. It was the same look she had given him that year in Périgord. Fourteen years old with blood on her face, and Madame Durand screaming about her dog vanishing from the grounds.

His voice became very cold. "I swear, Rena, if you've been doping her…"

"No, I…" It was strange seeing a look from so long ago. Rena, for a moment, as she had been before her sons had died. Before they were even born. A soldier who had once been so good with children. "…I just told her a story."

"A story…"

"I was trying to follow your orders …"

She was trying to dig her way out. He had a sudden flashback. Only in the past, she had been trying to explain why walking a dog did not necessarily mean it would be alive afterwards. Still he had not heard her speak this much in years. A fact that did nothing to stop his teeth from pulling back. "Go on," he said. After all, some lycans needed reassurance.

"Yes, Lyosha." She was blinking a lot, her accent becoming a little more French with every word. Immortals often forgot their phonetics as they were stressed."You ordered me to take care of her. Make her comfortable. And…" She gestured to the room. "…help her integrate with her surroundings."

"And what exactly do her surroundings have to do with laughter, Rena?" It was not so much laughter as the fact that Reinette was now wiping her eyes and judging by the volume, whatever had cause to amuse her was at its highest point whenever she looked at him.

"I…" Rena's voice was becoming tiny, confronted by the lycan who had raised her for at least seven of her childhood years. "…she wanted to know some history about…you, so we…we started to talk about…you."

"And…"

"That time…"

"When?"

"When you…" She breathed as though she needed to gather courage. Finally looking at the floor before saying it aloud. "…when you threw Madame Durand out of your bedroom window, except she…she knew that you do that sometimes, so before she slept, she tied herself to your…"

"Thank you, Rena." He could feel his eyes turning to slits…and then by sheer force of will, he released her throat. "I recall the incident…" He took a step back, opening the door on her behalf, trying not to enunciate every word with his teeth. "Now if you would be so good, I would like you to wait…outside…at the other end of the hallway. Can you do that?"

It was not so much a question as a warning. Rena nodded very quickly, backing out of the door and closing it behind her. Leaving him to close his eyes again and then stare at the ceiling, wondering how the hell she even knew that story. Two hundred years and it was still haunting him. And yet how hard was it for Durand or any of them for that matter to understand? He might require their company for certain exploits, but when it came to his quarters, he slept alone and he woke alone. It was that simple.

Having less time for dignity than purpose, he turned around. All he could see of Reinette was the back of her head. Like a crown of silver, completely unconcerned by his brooding, her lungs still full of life despite the scent of death surrounding her person. "Are you done?"

Perhaps no longer caring if she lasted the year, she finished her laughter, wiped her eyes and then sat up, reaching her arms around her knees and staring at him with new-found interest. As though despite her underlying bigotry, the notion of him being jerked out a window because of a bloodforsaken rope made out of sheets was somehow riveting information. For once, choosing not to meet him with severity but a scent verging on warmth. "I don't think I'll ever be done with this one, Lyosha."

He shrugged. "And yet people do move on."

"Not if they're tied to things."

"I was half-asleep."

"Is that how you remember it?" she asked with a half-intrigued smirk.

"Look…" It was like having his dirty laundry hung up in this room. First Jacqueline, now this. "…as much as I enjoy talking about this, Reinette, I have come here on business."

"You've dropped by on business?" Her lips were starting to draw back again. "Here for the long haul?"

He sighed, pulling out his watch for the sake of eyeing it. It was moments like these when he truly sympathised with whoever was murdering these women. "Puns are not as witty as you might imagine, Reinette," he said, holding a bored exterior as a contrast to her laughter before dragging one of the seats closer to the grate. The easiest way to stop something was to express disinterest. "…so I'll just wait here until you're finished, alright?"

That shut her up. Not that it could silence her completely. She stood, dusting off her skirt and moving to stand in front of him. She had lost her veil again. "I think in spite of my face, Lyosha, you are still the eldest between us. An old, old man." She frowned, mocking his severity. "You have no sense of humour. Particularly when it comes to yourself…"

"I have a brilliant sense of humour, and you know it." Unfazed by her mockery, he leaned forward with the vial, like a guest offering a fine wine to his host. About to ask her favour only to be beaten to the request.

She dropped into the other seat, plucking it from his hand. "One, two or three drops." She was getting used to her place in the scheme. Her purpose as a tool, though she was of no use officially, until such time as after the Gathering of the Horde. And that was only if they accepted her.

"Two."

"It brings the blood back up." By her tone, she was not saying 'no'…merely pointing out what luxuries came with the service. "I am only reminding you."

"Sweet, Reinette, but I think Rena deserves a little clean-up duty tonight, don't you?" He was being callous, but for Reinette to do her job, he could not regret putting her through pain. That was just a fact. "So where shall we do it…" He smirked, unable to control himself when presented with such an opportunity. "Bathroom or bed?"

"Very droll…" She stood, heading for the bathroom, making no sign that she cared for his brilliant sense of humour now that he was showing it. The vial in her palm, her back straight. He followed, leaning against the door, watching as she kneeled on the floor, placing the ceramic washbasin in front of her. Preparing to be sick. He could not feel regret. "Are you ready," she asked, shaking the vial.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"

"I was referring to your lack of pen. I thought you would want to write the words down." She was peering up at him. "I forget them after a while."

He shrugged her gaze off. "I listen. I remember. I write them down later." As was often the case, his next words were spoken without though. "What good is age if you can't even call up your most recent memories?"

Her lips tightened. "Yes, it really is quite pointless, Lyosha."

It occurred to him that she might not be agreeing with him. Rather than speak, he took a casual whiff of her scent…and then immediately changed what he was about to say. "I was speaking in the context of…"

"No…" She put up her hand. "…you're right." Sarcastically, she counted the points off her fingers. "Wrinkles. Bones. Weakness. A mortal could outlive me at this point." She made a sound. Her tone had become a mite icy. "I'm not even sure why I'm still breathing."

Or talking, he thought, letting out a long breath before starting to examine the mud on his left boot. Far easier to read mud than the emotions of women.

She gave him a withering look. The second he had received that night. The seconds continuing to pass until it became obvious that he was not about to contradict any of her observations. Only then wrenching the vial's cap off, like a witch forced to brew on command. Clearly tempted by the thought of cursing him, but instead, placing her finger against the rim, letting a drop of blood bead upon her flesh. Holding her finger above her mouth, allowing the drop to fall once…twice…before closing the vial quickly, passing it to his outstretched hand. Already swaying. Sick. Her eyes turning, her skin going pale as he had seen before. She began to speak…

"He lives in the light. Lost without sun, burning hatred before morning. Take the door on the left, they breathe the air, he breathes the water. The door on the right, he breathes the air. He takes their blood. The candle g-goes…out." On the last word, she folded over, her hands on her stomach, coughing…

…but no blood.

A minute ticked by. He was still waiting for the blood to come back up. Remaining by the door, Lucian crouched down, starting to chip off some of the dried mud. It was on the floor now. Not wanting to leave a mess, he found a clean washcloth on her table, wet the tip and wiped the mud flakes into a neat pile. "Is that it?"

Her face rose from the floor, her eyes glinting off the mud and washcloth. He could have bathed in the fresh scent of her angst. "Were you hoping for something a little more…" The sentence died.

She threw up.

Deciding it might be more polite to wait until she was finished, he started aimlessly picking at his other boot, trying to gauge how much longer. How much blood she could be holding in that small body of hers. It took about thirty seconds before she was done, her chin covered in red, wiping her lips against the thick, white cloth he gave her. The fact that it was her towel seemed to irritate her further. Perhaps he should have given her the washcloth instead. "Are we done here," she said, throwing the red towel to the floor, forcing herself to her knees.

"Can you stand," he asked. Familiar with her brand of reply, he added, "…and don't tell me to fuck off. I'm being serious."

Her mouth had been open, but before the 'f' sound could become any clearer, she closed it and then exhaled, sitting back. She looked paler than usual, the nausea showing in her eyes. "No."

"Well, keep your hands to yourself and we'll have you back on your feet before you can say 'bastard.'" That prompted a weak pursing of the lips, but he had not really expected a smile at this point. Not really. Not bothering to avoid the blood spatter, he scooped her up and headed for the bedroom, making a fine job of holding her a few inches away from his shirt. She was positively filthy. A bit like holding a soiled child. He had no sympathy for Rena, but whoever was doing his laundry this week was going to hate him. Probably Langley.

He left her on the bed, now frowning over the carpet he had tracked blood over. "Anything else?"

"Bastard."

He touched his chest, taking note of the few drops of blood she had smeared on it. "Done. Myself aside, can I tempt you with anything else?"

She made a sound and then coughed, adding a little more red to the pillow. Her voice sounded very tired, but there was no hatred. Resignation in her smell, slight amusement and perhaps the first sense that she was starting to trust him. "Can I go outside again?"

"Not tonight."

Her eyes went to her book, but she did not reach for it. "Tomorrow?"

Honesty was the best course of action. "Not for a long time, Reinette…" He picked up the Count of Monte Cristo and placed it near her hand. "…though I think you might have cause for some indoor excitement in about a week." Allegra would be pleased to see how well her protégé was doing…

"A week?" She tried to sit up. "What happens in a week?"

"Goodnight, Reinette."

"Lyosha, wait…" She was still struggling to sit up as he walked away, wasting energy, her voice getting weaker. Women could not stand being kept in the dark. "…are you taking me somewhere? Can you not give me a hint?"

"Gladly," he said. "Seven letters. It starts with 'fuck off.' Any questions?" The expression on her face made him grin, though the hand signal might have been an insult. "Now get some sleep," he added, closing the door, always satisfied when leaving someone with less information than he had. And now for the kill. With a growing light in his eye, he walked to the end of the hall. Rena was waiting conscientiously, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes demurely on the ground.

"Rena," he said, quite cheerfully as though he had just had the pleasure of noticing she was still here. He waited until she looked up and then inhaled, feeling remarkably good considering that someone had just died that evening. Just thinking about the amount of blood and mud waiting in that bathroom, not to mention the red sheets and towel, put a smile on his face. Instantly. "I have a job for you."

At the word 'job,' Rena's face fell.

Not lycan-heaven.

A/N: Tired as a dog (a little dog), so I'll be proofreading a second time tomorrow morning. (I tend to find more errors once the live version is up.) Anyway, thank you to Celtic_Aurora, trestreschic, Sheen, and BlackSpace003 for the latest reviews and story alert! As always, hope people enjoy the new chapter and please feel free to read and review.

Celtic_Aurora: She does tend to go on, doesn't she? :) Pleased you found the chapter up to snuff.

trestreschic: Yay, nice to hear. Will try to update a bit quicker these days so you have less withdrawal! :) And I have to admit, I have yet to read the Twilight books or see the film, but for the new one coming out (and from what I've read about that character), I'm betting Sheen will make a gorgeous Aro.

Sheen: Looking forward to writing Allegra again and glad you're looking forward to it. :)